Invincible
by eretria
Summary: Changes happen in everyone. Even hobbits.


**Rating:** G  
  
**Archive:** If you liked it, just ask  
  
**Time line:** The Two Towers - "Treebeard"  
  
**Summary:** Changes happen in everyone. Even hobbits.  
  
**Disclaimer:** Middle Earth and all its inhabitants, the Sundering seas and Over-heaven belong to the incredible genius that was J.R.R. Tolkien. No copyright infringement is intended, I am not making money from this at all, and will always stay in deep and humble adoration of the wonderful world he has created and in which I have lived since I was 4 years old. Thank you. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, or so they say. I hope this is at least a little flattering and enough to make the great man smile from up there.

* * *

**_Invincible_**

_For Kat, with love.  
  
Baylor, thank you for being such a dear friend._

* * *

Merry woke from the nightmare with a start, his heart thumping wildly. He sat up, hands reaching for the dagger which was no longer at his side, limbs shaking. For a moment, he was confused - the darkness surrounding him gave no notion of where he was or in which hands.  
  
Yet slowly, recent events resurfaced and he allowed his senses to reach out. He could smell fresh air, scented with hay and herbs that reminded him of the Shire on a late Summer night. Water gurgled like a distant song and he could hear deep, calm breathing. Next to him, familiar warmth radiated. Yet the tension in his body refused to go away, even as he lay back down and felt the soft mattress of hay in Treebeard's bed under him.  
  
He knew he was safe here, knew everything to be all right, but still …  
  
The nightmare had brought back memories he had tried to push away into the deepest caverns of his mind.  
  
Yes, since they had started out from Bree, he had known that to the world he seemed as though he was small and utterly vulnerable. All the hobbits seemed that way to the big people. Come to think of it, it had always been that way, and it had been good. Because that way, there were always ways to surprise those abnormally large ones. No, he wasn't vulnerable, he wasn't defenceless. None of them were.  
  
None of them had been.  
  
Not until …  
  
Merry clenched his fist around a handful of hay.  
  
Not until the orcs had come. Not until Boromir had died. Not until Grishnák had made it brutally clear that they were utterly frail, to the point of being completely at his mercy.  
  
The sting of the whip echoed in his mind. Through foggy wisps of memories he could hear Pippin's cries whenever the thong had cut his back or legs.  
  
His other hand went to his forehead. The scar was there, hard against his usually smooth forehead. Whatever Uglúk had smeared onto the gash had produced an excruciating pain before it had started healing the wound. The cruel laughter of the orcs rang in Merry's mind.  
  
He rose slowly, making sure not to wake Pippin. He glanced at his companion, sleeping peacefully, unaware of the dark memories harassing Merry. It had been like this for the past nights, over and over again. While Pippin slept, Merry was tortured by nightmares, lying awake more often than not.  
  
But it wasn't only the nightmares. Something else wouldn't allow his mind to rest, something he had witnessed with an odd feeling of detachedness. His hand reaching for the dagger. The dagger Galadriel had given him. The dagger - almost a short sword for the hobbit - that Aragorn had given him. Reaching out for it, feeling the cold steel pressing against his palms had started to reassure him in a way he wasn't sure was entirely pleasant.  
  
One thing it did for sure: It showed him - without mercy - that his senses were attuned differently now. Of course, he was still a hobbit, and his love still lay with plate and bottle and song. But his senses, usually only fine-tuned to peaceful banter and the occasional friendly clashes at the inns, were now branching out. He had felt battles. He had been in battles and he had felt them, the sheer energy, the raw force of them. The thought of having to defend himself, to defend his friends and companions - it had given him a feeling of worthiness. He was no longer only Merry, heir of Buckland, but he was Merry, the one valiant to the group, the one who could stand and fight if necessary, the one who could protect his companions.  
  
Bitter laughter rose in his throat like bile. Valiant he was indeed. Being carried away by orcs from a dying Boromir, thrashing and scratching like a lass, without doing any damage at all. They had taken away his dagger and the short sword. They had left him … naked without them. The steel had become a part of him, a part which didn't fit with the hobbit. It stuck out like a rusty nail - not deep enough to take real root and secure the house it was holding together, but not to be taken away without doing lasting damage to it, either.  
  
This house - he noted that he thought of a house, not a hole - was this him? He looked around at his surroundings. This was a hole - or rather, a cave. It was comfortable, and it gave the subtle feeling of being home. If he closed his eyes and cleared his mind, he could almost imagine being back home, and this being the Shire. The little rivulets of water outside sang their quiet, enchanting song. The wind rustled in the trees.  
  
How many of them were alive, like Treebeard, Merry wondered? He had never expected the stories about the trees in the old forest to be true. Yet now that he knew Treebeard, he wondered just how much of this had been fireside stories, and how much of it had been true.  
  
How much more was there he didn't know about? If stories from his childhood could come true, what else could?  
  
And what power did he have to protect himself and his loved ones from whatever else was out there?  
  
Merry sank to the ground at the entrance of the cave, feeling the cool night-air grazing his hot face. There was nothing he could do. Nothing he could do to save them. He was far away from his home, away from his companions, away from …  
  
"I had a feeling you would turn into an owl, but not quite so fast." The voice came from behind him, he flinched. He hadn't heard Pippin getting up.  
  
His cousin dropped down next to Merry with an unceremonious and rather inelegant "oof".  
  
"Good night for star-gazing." Pippin stated. Merry shivered uncomfortably. Nothing could be further from the truth, but he wasn't going to correct Pippin.  
  
"Do you remember the old stories?" Pippin went on, seemingly unaware of his cousin's mood. "The ones old Bilbo told us? He said that for every star, there was a story." Pippin turned his head into Merry's direction, trying hard not to yawn into his cousin's face. "What do you think - was he right?"  
  
Merry shrugged. He didn't want to talk now, wished that Pippin would go back to sleep.  
  
"He also said that the darkness surrounding the stars were the sad stories, the ones without a happy end, the cruel ones, and the stars were the good stories, the ones which had a happy and wonderful ending." Merry racked his brains - he couldn't for the life of him remember Bilbo telling the story that way. Yet he said nothing, kept his mouth in a quiet line.  
  
"I have always wondered," Pippin went on, still ostensibly careless and not seeming to be scared off by Merry not responding, "that if the darkness surrounding the stars really were the sad and dark stories, how it came that there was so much darkness and so few stars."  
  
A muscle in Merry's neck seized suddenly, a sharp pain shooting up. He glanced at Pippin from the corner of his eyes. The younger one was looking at the dark landscape before them, at the trees whose leaves glittered in the moonlight, at the little brook, making its way down into the valley of sorts which stretched out below Treebeard's "dwelling hole". He seemed calm, if tired. His clothes were rumpled, his hair sticking up in odd angles which only ever seemed to come to Pippins head. In the semi-darkness, he couldn't see the rings under Pippin's eyes, but knew them to be there, same as the bruises and the cuts from the ropes which had bound their hands and legs. Darkness was merciful, darkness covered everything. Pain, loss, remorse, bravery, cowardice, helplessness.  
  
_So much darkness, and so few stars._  
  
Maybe that was the way it had always been. Maybe that was why people had retreated into darkness. Merry thought to understand them now. Out in the daylight, thoughts were laid open, everything was visible, you had to be in constant vigilance, trying not to let show what was going on inside of you. Not so at night.  
  
Night was merciful. Darkness was merciful.  
  
_So few stars._  
  
Merry didn't have an answer. He never seemed to have answers these days. All he had were vague guesses. Not good enough to be a star. Only to be set in darkness.  
  
And what frightened him most, was the fact that he didn't mind it much.  
  
"But there are more stars here." Pippin was saying, leaving Merry to wonder how many of his cousin's words he had missed while brooding. The younger one pointed towards the sky, and indeed: The night-sky was strewn with thousands of tiny lights. Almost as if someone had poked holes in the black velvet blanket that was the night.  
  
While he was still looking at the sleeping forest, he could feel Pippin watching him intently. His cousin had a way of scrutinising a person which made you immediately uncomfortable. You knew there was something going on behind those green eyes and the innocent smile. Something which ran deeper than the casual and impish façade. But Merry didn't know if he wanted to be scrutinised that way. It meant that Pippin had guessed something, meant that the cover of darkness was no longer cover enough.  
  
Again his hand reached out for the cool steel - and found nothing. He tensed, disappointment flooding his body. But disappointment about what? About the missing dagger or about the fact that he had reached for it, even in a simple thing as a conversation with his cousin?  
  
He didn't realise that Pippin had risen until he felt him sit back down. Merry concentrated hard on not looking into Pippin's face. So he stared at the sky, with its stars twinkling at him.  
  
_So much darkness, and so few stars._  
  
Something cool touched his hands. Cool, smooth metal. He didn't need to look at it to know it was a dagger.  
  
But his gaze flew up, searching Pippin's. "Where … How … ?"  
  
"You're remarkably eloquent tonight, cousin." Pippin shook his head, and closed Merry's hand around the dagger, careful of the blade. "I picked it up when we fled. Thought it might still be of use to us. One way or the other." There was an undertone in his voice, one Merry wasn't sure he liked.  
  
Pippin inclined his head. "I daresay I was right." Said nothing more. He went over to the little brook and dabbed a toe into the cool water.  
  
Merry felt the cold steel in his hands, and again watched with an odd detachment as his fingers caressed the blade. When his mind was cleared of the thoughts rushing behind his forehead, he glanced at Pippin. So serene. It was almost as if this whole experience hadn't left any marks on his soul. At least that was how it seemed to Merry.  
  
Until Pippin raised his head, and met Merry's glance squarely.  
  
"I don't --" Merry began, lifting the sword to hand it back to his cousin.  
  
Pippin shook his head. "Yes, you do." He pressed his hand against the tip of the blade lowering it, holding Merry's gaze with eyes that were too old for a hobbit-lad like Pippin. "And you should. For one more star up there." He yawned, sleepiness spreading over his features, washing away the disconcerting wisdom that had been there before. "And for me to finally get some sleep tonight."  
  
Unceremoniously, Pippin turned around and went back to sleep.  
  
Merry stared after his cousin for a long time. Looked at Pippin's shoulders and the way his breathing slowly became deeper. Heard the quiet snores.  
  
Starlight reflected off the short sword. Wind in the trees. Water gurgling.  
  
Merry moved the sword through the air, heard its swishing. It was normal. Yet it wasn't.  
  
But, he decided, going back to Pippin and laying down, it didn't matter.

* * *

_Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;  
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.  
(Sarah Williams „The Old Astronomer to His Pupil")_

* * *

  
  
Finis


End file.
